


But He's Got The Devil In Him

by morganya



Category: Bandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-27
Updated: 2010-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-20 07:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/morganya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the oldest joke in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But He's Got The Devil In Him

It's the oldest joke in the world. Dude walks into a bar, runs into some asshole and gets his face rearranged.

He can't remember the bar, or what words were exchanged, not exactly. He walked in, drunk, and his plan was to stay there, drunk. Then everything turned around on him and the only clear image he has is of him staggering into the street (maybe he was thrown out, maybe he left on his own, who knows, who cares), his knuckles split open and blood running into his eyes.

He hasn't stopped bleeding, really, so he doesn't really know how much time's gone by. The sun came up but he's used to blinking and having it be daylight, so it could have been hours or seconds or days. His hood is pasted to his head, blood clumping in the fabric. He knows he looks like Frankenstein's Monster, his spare parts already past warranty, and it wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't so predicable.

The Pete of five years ago was all about creativity and seeing just how far he could take his body until it broke on him. No more games of Russian Roulette, no more walking out into traffic blitzed on pills, no more drug-slurred phone calls in the middle of the night. Because now he's thirty and he's married with a kid and the fact that he's walking into Sea-Tac bloody and sore just makes him a loser. Because now he isn't that kid who played bass with Fall Out Boy and apparently now his only options are to get drunk and punch strangers in bars, because he's got no creativity left in him.

He keeps his head down at the ticket counter. He thinks the agent still notices something (he's hard to miss with his face split open), but he still remembers enough to shoot her a look that stops any concern cold. She hands over his boarding pass and he goes away, scratching roughly at the dried blood on his neck.

He called Ash sometime last night, he thinks, and his only hope is that the flight to New York will give him time to think up a story of why he's a monster now, or at least, give the bruises time to fade before his son sees him. His eye stings. He reaches up a hand and his fingerprints come away sticky because some cut or another must have opened up again. He's a fucking lousy father.

He manages to get to the gate. He could use a drink that would shut his brain off, but he's already shaky on his legs and alcohol probably wouldn't him clot any faster. He manages to drop into one of the benches and then the guy sitting next to him looks up from his phone and oh what do you know it's Gabe. Somehow that seems to make a lot of sense.

Gabe's usual wolfish smile slides off as soon as he sees Pete's face. "Dude. What the fuck, dude?"

"I don't want to talk about it," he says.

Gabe shoves his Sidekick into his pocket and leans over. Pete tries to bat him away but he's already touching Pete's face with slow callused fingers. "You're bleeding like hell. What did you do?"

"You should see the other guy," he says.

"You're a dumbass," Gabe says. "I thought you had the hookup. You should be getting transfusions somewhere, not sitting in the lounge at ass in the afternoon."

"I don't care," Pete says. Gabe tilts his head back. "Stop."

Gabe pulls away. "You're gonna bleed to death in the middle of the airport, and they're going to blame me for it. Way to be considerate."

"I'm done with being considerate." He straightens back up, too fast, and he thinks he's either going to puke or pass out.

"Goddamnit, Wentz," Gabe says, and he's obviously trying his hardest to be sarcastic and assholish, but Pete can hear the worry and fear underneath like a faultline, and it makes him feel worse.

"I'm fine. I don't want to talk about it."

"I'm not asking. Lie down. I'll get you some orange juice."

"I don't want it."

"You're being a brat," Gabe points out. "I'll chalk it up to your being in shock."

He lost whatever fight he had left in him a while ago, so he lies down across the hard airport lounge bench and listens to Gabe's footsteps recede.

He feels a hand on his shoulder after a minute and Gabe saying in his professorial tone that brooks no argument, "Sit up slowly and drink this."

The orange stings his mouth a little when he drinks it, but then the sugar rush kicks in and he feels a little more together. He realizes halfway through the juice that he's slumped into Gabe's side, but if Gabe's not going to mention it he won't either. Gabe says, "Let me know when you can get up and we'll get you pretty again in the bathroom. Don't want you scaring the shit out of the flight crew."

Pete grunts. He lets Gabe guide him into the men's room. Gabe hisses softly when he peels the hood off Pete's head but doesn't say anything, just runs the water and grabs a handful of paper towels.

"I'm pretty sure you need stitches," he says, gingerly touching the cut by Pete's eye before he swabs the blood off. "You're probably not going to bleed to death, but you don't want to go home to your kid like this."

"You're telling me," Pete says. "I'll do something when we get to JFK."

"It'll be midnight when we get to New York, you moron. You think you're going to just waltz into the emergency room at midnight? You'd be better off bleeding to death in the street."

"Your dad would be thrilled to have you talk about his profession like that, I'm sure."

"My dad would be the first one to tell you never to go to the emergency room at midnight. I'm gonna call him. He can get us at the airport and then fix you up."

"Your dad's an ear, nose and throat guy. What's he know about stitches?"

"Well, Jesus Christ, they cover stitches on the first day of medical school. Plus he's _my_ father. You think he's never had to whip out the first aid kit for me?"

"Whatever."

Gabe handed him the wad of wet paper towels and ducked into one of the stalls. Pete heard him talking in Spanish after a while, which must mean that Gabe was showing his father that he was a very good boy in need of help.

Getting his dad to drive out from Jersey at midnight. Fuck. Pete scrubs at his face.

Gabe emerges grinning from the stall. "He'll meet us there."

"I'll pay you both back for this."

"Bullshit. You're my friend. You're not going to do shit."

Pete looks at himself in the mirror. He's swollen up like a melon and his face is a variety of interesting colors. His cuts are oozing steadily.

"I don't –" he begins.

"We're going to board soon," Gabe says. "You need anything else?"

 _A personality transplant. A new band. Patrick not to hate me anymore._ "I don't know."

"C'mon," Gabe says.

Gabe manages to maneuver himself into the seat next to Pete on the plane (it's practically deserted so he didn't need to pull rank). He spends the flight dabbing at Pete's face with a crumpled Kleenex, whispering encouragement into his ear.

"The stewardess thinks you're fucking me," Gabe tells him.

"Flight attendant," Pete says tiredly. "She doesn't."

"Does too," Gabe says. "It's going to be all over Perez in the morning."

"Well, that's just what I need."

Gabe doesn't say anything for a minute. Then he leans in and whispers fiercely, "Motherfucker, don't think that you're not going to make it through this, because you will. You're going to get past this."

"I hope so," Pete says. "I'm trying."

Gabe walks him off the plane in New York, into the concourse. He must spot his father in the crowd, because he waves and then puts a guiding hand on Pete's back, walking him across the floor until he feels like he can do it on his own.


End file.
